Monday, Monday. So much to do, so fucking much to do. That�s fine, though, when it comes down to it, as much as I bitch, I�d rather have too much to do than not enough of anything to do. Call me ambitious.

I saw my mother last night, I grabbed a bite to eat with her and one of my sisters. I mentioned that my father had called from Germany, checking in with everyone, told them that he�s doing fine and wishes everyone well. My mother was (what�s that word that describes a bird, when it�s annoyed and fluffs up it�s feathers? Cause that�s how she was), she said in a curt tone, �Why does he always call you? You�re never even home, it�s a lucky thing he caught you.� Calmly, I replied, �because he knows he can rely on me to understand that expensive long-distance calls need to be sweet and brief. He knows that he can call me, and that when he hangs up that phone he�ll have a smile on his face, and he knows that I will give everyone the information that he relays through me. That�s why.� End of story.

My mother holds me personally accountable for the fact that my father left her. I had nothing to do with it, of course. If anything, she was the catalyst for my close relationship to Dad. She singled me out as an outlet for all of her suppressed miseries, and as a result, my father came in to protect me, he was my exit door from drama to normality. I don�t despise my mother for her inability to love unconditionally. I don�t regret my upbringing. Every dirty look, every hurtful word, every slap made me the woman I am today. And that�s something I wouldn�t want to change. It�s like a Chinese Proverb I love to quote, �The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.� So true.

So, I�m over any past drama, any little breakdowns I�ve had (only one big one to date), and I am strong -- emotionally, socially, mentally. I feel there is no situation I can�t handle. But I must admit, it�s damn annoying when I see my mother now, and she�s STILL living in that space of resenting me and my close relationship with my father. Resenting me my successes, the fact that I am living life, when she was married with child at the age of 17. She�s always berated me for my choices, my lifestyles. She has her opinions, and she�s not afraid to voice them. But as she�s telling me what a horrible life I lead, as she�s chastising and judging and scolding, I swear, there�s something I see behind the fire in her eyes� some kind of longing. Some kind of, �I wish I was there, I wish I could do that� but now it�s too late, and I never will.�

It saddens me to look at her through her own eyes. How she sees herself as someone with no more options in life. How often she speaks of suicide and loneliness. There are millions of women who have so much less than she does in life, who are somehow happier with their lot than she could ever be. If only there was a way to teach someone the ability to take and own all of the joys that life has to offer. Some way to show her that happiness is a choice. That we should not be striving to become what we think we should be, not be striving to get what we think we should have. Rather, being what we are, accepting graciously what is around us, and enjoying (taking joy in) every little bit of it.

If only.

-Barbarella

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